exterior view.
“This journey will be dangerous enough, child,” he’d told her, “without men getting a look at you.” The statement had been accompanied by an odd smile. Fondness and pride, partly. But there had been something else. . . .
When she had realized what that “something else” was, Rebecca had been startled as much as shocked. The shock came from understanding the crime her father feared. Do men actually do such things? The startlement, from realizing that even her father thought she was beautiful. Others had told her so, but— The notion still seemed odd. She herself never saw anything in the mirror but a young Sephardic woman. Olive skin, long black hair, a nose, two dark eyes, a mouth, chin. Yes, the features were very regular and symmetrical. More so than most, perhaps. And she sometimes thought, in her rare moments of vanity, that her lips were attractive. Full, rich. But still—beautiful? What does that mean?
Finally—it took but seconds, though it seemed an eternity—she had the sash undone. She brushed the curtain aside and thrust her head through the window.
For a moment, she did not understand what her eyes were seeing. Her mind was still fixed on her father’s plight. His heart . . . !
Then, she saw. She gasped and drew back. A new terror came, crashing onto the old. Some of that fear was caused by the sight of bodies scattered everywhere. Or so it seemed to her, in that first glimpse. Rebecca had never witnessed scenes of violence before. Nothing beyond scuffling ruffians, at least, and the authorities in Amsterdam tolerated little even of that. She had certainly never—
Blood everywhere! And that’s—that’s a head lying over there. And that woman—what? Has she been—? Oh, God!
But so much
“This journey will be dangerous enough, child,” he’d told her, “without men getting a look at you.” The statement had been accompanied by an odd smile. Fondness and pride, partly. But there had been something else. . . .
When she had realized what that “something else” was, Rebecca had been startled as much as shocked. The shock came from understanding the crime her father feared. Do men actually do such things? The startlement, from realizing that even her father thought she was beautiful. Others had told her so, but— The notion still seemed odd. She herself never saw anything in the mirror but a young Sephardic woman. Olive skin, long black hair, a nose, two dark eyes, a mouth, chin. Yes, the features were very regular and symmetrical. More so than most, perhaps. And she sometimes thought, in her rare moments of vanity, that her lips were attractive. Full, rich. But still—beautiful? What does that mean?
Finally—it took but seconds, though it seemed an eternity—she had the sash undone. She brushed the curtain aside and thrust her head through the window.
For a moment, she did not understand what her eyes were seeing. Her mind was still fixed on her father’s plight. His heart . . . !
Then, she saw. She gasped and drew back. A new terror came, crashing onto the old. Some of that fear was caused by the sight of bodies scattered everywhere. Or so it seemed to her, in that first glimpse. Rebecca had never witnessed scenes of violence before. Nothing beyond scuffling ruffians, at least, and the authorities in Amsterdam tolerated little even of that. She had certainly never—
Blood everywhere! And that’s—that’s a head lying over there. And that woman—what? Has she been—? Oh, God!
But so much